They Call Her Dana

by Jennifer Wilde

  “Your daddy sends all his mistresses here,” the blonde replied. Her voice was a cool, lazy drawl, considerably more cultivated. “It’s a wonder we haven’t run into one of them.”

  “They couldn’t be as bad as her, Regina. Daddy’s very discreet. He doesn’t bring his women into his own house like Julian Etienne. I’m shocked that Corinne would agree to dress that—I forget her name.”

  “They call her Dana,” Regina drawled, “and everything’s quite respectable, Bertha. He adopted her, at least made her his ward. I should think it might set a whole new trend. Whenever one of our men find a pretty slut they want to fuck, they simply go to Judge Moreau and become her guardian—saves the expense of setting her up in an apartment.”

  I was shocked to hear that word on the lips of a young woman who was supposedly well-bred, and I was stunned at the implication she had made. I stood there behind the screen, numb, a cold rage slowly mounting.

  “Do you really think she’s pretty?” Bertha asked.

  “Passable, I suppose. Some of those buffalo gals do have nice features.”

  “Buffalo gals? You mean—”

  “She’s bound to have nigra blood with that complexion of hers.”

  “I wouldn’t call her dark,” Bertha said, “but she does have a large mouth. That makes it even worse! Poor Lavinia—she’s absolutely distraught, has been ever since that creature arrived, and Magdelon is so humiliated she’s ashamed to show her face in public.”

  “So that’s why I haven’t seen Magdelon lately? I just assumed Reginald Vandercamp had gotten her pregnant. They’ve been screwing in his aunt’s gazebo ever since April.”

  “Reggie has moved to Memphis. Magdelon’s been seeing Pierre Dorsay.”

  “I wish her luck,” Regina said. “He gets it up at the drop of a hat, gets it off before a girl even gets started. A great lay he isn’t.”

  “He’s gorgeous, I wouldn’t mind trying him.”

  “You’d try anything, pet. Not that you get that many offers. If your daddy weren’t so wealthy, you’d still be a virgin.

  “You’re wicked, Regina!”

  “I wonder what Magdelon’s brother is up to these days. Raoul Etienne is undoubtedly the most exciting man in the Quarter. I’d give a pretty penny to have his shoes under my bed.”

  “There’s not much chance of it,” Bertha said snidely. “Raoul likes a challenge, not a pushover.”

  Why, they’re no better than the girls in the swamp, I thought, trying to control my anger. Bloodline and background and money don’t mean a thing. They’ve got the morals of alley cats, and they say nasty things about me. I may come from the swamp, may have fed chickens and pigs and gone without shoes, but I’m as good as those two strumpets any day of the week. My anger under control now, I walked from behind the screen and glanced at them with cool hauteur. Bertha blushed furiously. Regina turned pale, and then her green eyes began to flash angrily.

  “I suppose you’ve been eavesdropping!” she snapped.

  “I haven’t been eavesdropping,” I said politely, “but I couldn’t help hearing what you said.”

  “You heard—”

  “I heard enough to know that you’re a malicious shrew with the instincts and appetites of the basest whore.”

  Bertha gasped. Regina turned even paler, trembling with outrage.

  “Why—why, you filthy little slut. How dare you speak to me like that! How dare you speak to me at all!”

  I looked at her ashen cheeks and her blazing eyes and then walked calmly toward the door. Regina spluttered. Bertha’s cheeks were still a fiery pink. At the door I turned and gave them another frosty glance.

  “I don’t intend to stand for this!” Regina cried. “I don’t intend to let a piece of trash from the swamp call me names!”

  “I would tell you to go get laid,” I said sweetly, “but you’ll undoubtedly do that anyway.”

  Regina was shocked speechless. Bertha was leaning against the wall, clutching the red velvet gown she had yet to try on. I gave the two ladies a polite nod and left the establishment with perfect poise. You really have changed, I told myself. Five months ago you’d have gone after them with claws unsheathed. Apparently everyone in the Quarter was talking about me. I was a shameless creature from the swamp who probably had Negro blood as well. Tongues would wag even more after today. Let them. I had nothing to be ashamed of, and I vowed I was going to make Julian very proud. People could talk all they liked. I was going to show them exactly what being a lady was all about.

  Chapter Eight

  I LOOKED AT THE ELEGANT CREATURE IN THE MIRROR, and I saw a little girl with a dirty face and tangled honey-blond hair, wearing a ragged pink dress. I felt a tremulous feeling inside, remembering, trying to forget. It seemed I could hear the chickens and smell the pigsty and I saw Ma’s face and heard her soft voice and I thrust the memory aside. The pain was still too great. The dirty little girl shimmered in the glass, vanishing, gone now, and I coolly inspected the woman in the sumptuous topaz satin gown. I couldn’t believe she was real, much less that she was me. She was indeed elegant, the gorgeous gown complimenting her creamy tan complexion, short puffed sleeves worn off the shoulder, bodice cut low enough to reveal the full swell of bosom, waist snug, the skirt spreading out luxuriantly over the underskirts.

  Kayla had performed miracles with my hair, pulling it back sleekly like a tight cap, leaving three long sausage ringlets to dangle on the right, just below my temple. Above the ringlets she had affixed the lovely creation Corinne had designed especially for me, three short cream-colored ostrich feathers fastened to a cream velvet bow. Instead of standing up, the feathers curled delicately around the right side of my head. It was a gorgeous creation that went beautifully with the satin gown and long velvet gloves. At Kayla’s insistence I had applied a bit of rouge to my lips, just slightly darkening their natural pink, and I had used a bit of blush, which emphasized my high cheekbones and, on my lids, a faint golden-brown shadow. The makeup was subtle and merely highlighted my own coloring, but I felt it made me look older and far more sophisticated. Why, I could pass for twenty or twenty-one, I thought.

  “I cain’t believe it, Miz Dana,” Kayla declared, looking at me with something like awe. “I just cain’t believe it’s you.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean you ain’t always fetchin’, but tonight—tonight you’s downright dazzlin’. I ain’t never seen any gal so beautiful, and I ain’t joshin’. I ’spect it has somethin’ to do with th’ way I done your hair.”

  “I ’spect it does. You did a marvelous job, Kayla, even if it did take a good two hours.”

  Kayla beamed and continued to chatter about my hair and my gown and what a sensation I was going to cause, and I took a deep breath and willed myself not to scream. All day long I had kept my nerves at bay, convincing myself that I wasn’t at all nervous, but now as the time drew near for me to go downstairs, to leave for the ball, I could feel panic mounting inside. I am not afraid of those people, I told myself. I am every bit as good as they are, and I intend to hold my head high and be cool and polite and gracious, no matter what. They can stare and whisper all they like, but it won’t bother me in the least. I’m not going to let it bother me. I know that none of those things they are saying about me are true and … and I don’t care what they think.

  “—when they sees you tonight, them handsome young gents’re gonna all be flockin’ round. You’s gonna have so many beaux we won’t be able to count ’em all.”

  “I doubt that, Kayla,” I said.

  “An’ one of ’em will sweep you off your feet. That’s how it happens. Me, I’ve been swept off my feet so many times I’s still dizzy. Ain’t nothin’ like it.”

  I took a deep breath and made a final adjustment of the sleeves, the panic jangling inside. Kayla seemed to sense the way I felt. She looked at me with warm brown eyes full of understanding and genuine affection.

  “Don’t you worry none, Miz Dana
,” she told me. “They’s just people like you an’ me. They ain’t gonna eat you.”

  “Maybe they’ll just tear me from limb to limb.”

  “They’s gonna love you.”

  “Don’t count on it,” I told her.

  I seemed to be numb as I started down the hall, the full satin skirt making rustling music. I had the feeling I was on my way to face a firing squad, and I wasn’t at all sure I wouldn’t prefer that to going to the ball and being on display all evening. Was I showing too much bosom? Was I wearing too much makeup? The woman in the looking glass was beautiful—I couldn’t deny that—elegant, too, and superbly composed, but that was all an act. I had acquired polish and poise, but inside I was still Dana and—I might as well admit it—absolutely terrified. You can whistle in the dark all you like, but the terror is still there.

  I moved slowly down the gracefully curving white staircase, my hand resting on the smooth banister. Hearing voices below, I paused, peering down into the foyer. Julian and Delia were waiting for me, Julian looking wonderfully handsome in beautifully tailored black breeches and frock coat. His shirtfront gleamed white, his white silk neckcloth perfectly arranged. In her pale opal satin gown, with her silver cloud of hair, Delia looked like some fragile porcelain figurine.

  “Do stop grumbling, Julian. You know you can’t miss the Lecombs’ ball, so be a man about it.”

  “I’d rather be drawn and quartered.”

  “You haven’t been out of the house even once since you got back from your last trip to the swamp. You can’t spend your entire life shut up in your study. It’ll do you good to see people.”

  “They bore the bejesus out of me. Idle, narrow-minded men, haughty matrons, impudent young rakes, flirtatious, empty-headed belles—all of ’em ever so superior. The Creole aristocracy!”

  “They’re our people, Julian, and they’re not all like that. Do try to be civil tonight, and please, dear, for my sake, don’t start babbling about plants and things. No one’s interested.”

  “They’re not interested in anything but bloodlines and the next party and their tawdry little love affairs.”

  “That’s not so, dear, and you know it. You are a grouch tonight. I wish Charles were here. He might not enjoy these gatherings, but at least he doesn’t carry on like a spoiled child and make everyone else miserable. I for one intend to have a marvelous evening.”

  “It’s almost eight. Where’s that blasted girl?”

  That blasted girl? I felt my cheeks flush. I swept on down the stairs, skirts swaying. Delia gave me a warm smile. Knowing I had overheard, Julian looked sheepish, and then, when he had had a good look at me, looked completely stunned.

  “Jesus,” he whispered.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve detained you,” I said coldly.

  “You haven’t, dear,” Delia assured me.

  “What have you done to yourself?”

  “Done?”

  “You look—you look—”

  “She looks enchanting, Julian.”

  “That child I brought back from the swamp—”

  “I’m not a child! I haven’t been for some time.”

  “There’s no need to get snippy. I merely meant—My God, you’re—maybe it’s the gown. How much did it cost me, by the way?”

  “Plenty,” I retorted.

  Julian looked amused. I glared at him, still offended by his referring to me as “that blasted girl.” I longed to tell him exactly what I thought of him, longed, in fact, to give him a sharp kick in the shin, but I was a proper young lady now and proper young ladies didn’t do such things. Being “civilized” definitely had its disadvantages.

  “The surface is smoother,” he said, “but the spirit is still there. Why haven’t I noticed these changes before?”

  “You’ve been too bloody busy with your blasted book,” I snapped, and that particular sentence was quite a test of my newly acquired vocal skills. Professor Jobin would have been proud of me.

  “It’s amazing,” Julian said thoughtfully. “I could swear the last time I saw you you still had a dirty face and pigtails.”

  “I never had pigtails!”

  “And now—lo and behold, you stand before me the very epitome of gracious young womanhood. You’re cool, refined, beautifully poised, although I fear you’re as lippy as ever, even if the sound is more soothing. All those tutors putting me into the poorhouse have apparently done an excellent job.”

  “Dana has worked very hard,” Delia said.

  “I certainly have.”

  “Can you read and write now?”

  “I read all the books I can—” Seeing his grin, I cut myself short. “You’re teasing me!”

  “It’s a deplorable habit I have,” he confessed.

  “I even read that horribly long book you gave me—all about the evolution of ferns and the sex life of hydrangeas.”

  “Oh? How did you find it?”

  “Tedious. I prefer Balzac and George Sand.”

  Julian elevated one eyebrow. “Balzac? George Sand? I see Delia’s influence at work. Looks like I’m going to have to start supervising your reading. I didn’t spend all that money on tutors so that you can fill your head with the plots of frivolous French novels.”

  “They’re quite educational,” I informed him. “I’ve learned a lot.”

  “About the wrong subjects,” he countered. “Well, ladies, shall we depart for the ball? Unless, of course, you’d rather skip it? I’d just as soon start making up that reading list—”

  “We’ll depart,” Delia said firmly.

  Julian grinned again, looking positively jovial now. He linked his arm in hers and hooked his other arm around my shoulders and led us out to the waiting carriage, a disapproving Pompey holding the front door open for us. I was very aware of his arm on my bare flesh. It rested heavily, warm, pulling me closer, giving me a delicious feeling of security. He looked down at me, eyes full of warmth, and I wondered how I could ever have harbored nasty thoughts about him. I felt a wonderful glow inside. Affection? Gratitude? Something more? I was disappointed when he removed his arm to help Delia into the carriage. When she was settled in, he took my hand and performed the same service for me, settling me on the seat opposite her. I smoothed my skirts down, and he climbed inside, plopping down beside me and closing the door. He was so large, and although he appeared indolent and low-keyed, he had such great vitality.

  “So,” he said as the carriage pulled away, “your first ball. How do you feel?”

  “Terrified,” I admitted.

  “No need for you to be,” he said. “They’re just a group of silly, boring people who happen to believe they’re better than anyone else in the city—or in the country, for that matter.”

  “You’re being very unfair, Julian,” Delia scolded. “We happen to be part of that group.”

  “More’s the pity.”

  “It’s called reverse snobbery,” Delia explained to me. “Julian disdains them and, therefore, feels superior to the people he thinks feel superior to everyone else.…” She hesitated, frowning. “Does that make sense?”

  “None whatsoever,” Julian said.

  “I’m sure I know what I meant to say, but somehow it—you’ve confused me, Julian. I intend to ignore you for the rest of the evening.”

  Julian chuckled and patted my arm, settling back against the cushions, taking up more than his share of room. The carriage moved slowly through the labyrinth of streets. It was a lovely evening, pleasantly warm, the air perfumed as always by the multitude of flowers growing behind mellow brick walls. The Quarter was cloaked in a hazy violet-black darkness and awash with silver moonlight. We rode on in silence, and I could feel panic rising anew as we slowed down even more, falling into a line of carriages that were entering an enormous courtyard, stopping in front of a gracious portico.

  “Actually the Lecombs’ house isn’t any larger than ours,” Delia said. “It is similar in layout and design, but they have reception rooms and a huge ballroom
where our east wing would be.”

  The line of carriages creeped forward at a snail’s pace. We finally turned through a pair of crumbling stone portals and stopped on the semicircular drive to wait for the three carriages in front of us to unload their passengers. Julian gave a weary sigh and sat up straight, smoothing the lapels of his frock coat and looking very resigned. We inched forward a few more yards. Delia brushed at her pale opal skirt. I felt numb with apprehension. Sensing this, Julian took my hand, squeezing it so tightly I winced. In a matter of moments we had pulled up before the portico and the carriage door was being opened by a Negro footman. Julian scrambled out and helped us alight, and our carriage moved on as we started up the wide steps toward the front door.

  “You’ll find the Lecombs rather unusual,” Delia confided to me. “They’re quite charming, but he, alas, is somewhat hard of hearing, and she, poor dear, has never gotten over being part of the French court—she still dresses in the mode of Marie Antoinette, complete with wide paneled skirts and towering, befeathered headdresses.”

  “They’re both barmy,” Julian said.

  Delia gave him a warning look as we entered a huge foyer done all in shades of pale blue and white. I could hear music and voices coming from another part of the house. I felt icy cold. I felt my feet would not work. Another Negro footman greeted us and led us down a long corridor, and my feet were working and I was perfectly poised and I didn’t turn and run, I didn’t faint. The music and sound of voices grew louder, and then we entered a large, lovely reception room. Gold gilt patterns adorned the white walls. Three huge crystal chandeliers hung from the molded ceiling. The room was filled with gorgeously attired people who chattered and laughed and then suddenly they were no longer chattering, no longer laughing. They were whispering, staring. The music continued to swell, coming from the adjoining ballroom. I heard a loud, shocked gasp and saw Julian’s Aunt Lavinia across the room beside her son Raoul and a lovely, haughty young woman I assumed was his sister Magdelon. An eternity seemed to pass, but actually it was only a few seconds, and then people began to talk again, in lower voices, staring more discreetly now, pretending not to. Julian missed not a beat, leading Delia and me over to the bizarre couple who were greeting their guests.